One Man's Hell
by soho178
Summary: An AU look at Heath's early days at the ranch.


**One Man's Hell **

**by Soho178**

**Disclaimer: For Entertainment purposes only. The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author. Original characters are the property of the author and may not be used without permission.**

"Boy, I told you to keep your hands off that horse." His hand stopped mid-reach, on its way to petting the horse that stood on the other side of the corral fence. The grip that spun him around was followed immediately by a solid right cross that landed Heath in the dirt. Nick wasn't used to having his orders ignored and he sure as hell wasn't going to put up with it from that whoreson that his Mother and siblings were accepting as part of the family.

The horse had been a bone of contention between the two since it had been caught two weeks before. Nick had tried repeatedly to break him but was having no luck. Heath was adamant that gentling was the only thing that would work. Neither man wanted to geld he stallion, as he was exquisitely built and should make prime breeding stock.

All movement within eyeshot stopped as an ominous silence filled the air, the hands working nearby waiting to see how this latest confrontation would play out. Heath had barely gotten to his feet when the other man grabbed him by the collar and continued.

"I don't know what ever made you think you could walk in here and stake a claim on the Barkley name, but I'm telling you now, that you've made a big mistake, I am gonna be your worst nightmare. You hear me Boy! I'll make your life Hell!"

Heath shook off the hand that held him in place and turned to walk away. His blue eyes had taken on the sheen of steel. He clenched his jaw, fighting to keep his breathing calm and measured in the face of his growing rage.

"Don't you walk away from me!" The hand that reached out to stop him managed to grab only a fistful of blue chambray and pull it back sharply. For one brief instant it stopped Heath's forward motion, but then the worn fabric gave way under the force.

The sound of the ripping fabric seemed to hang in the air, its memory overlaying a silence so profound that not even the horse stirred. Six pairs of eyes raked over his exposed back, taking in the thickened, twisted, ropes of scar tissue that trailed from side to side. Layer upon layer, one over top of the other, they reached across the broad expanse of his back, leaving almost none of the clear smooth skin that must have once been there.

Heath's rage seemed to fall away with the cloth that hung at his waist. He turned to face his half-brother with a bitter laugh and a parody of the half-smile that occasionally graced his face. "I already know what Hell looks like Nick, and it ain't you." With that, he bent to pick up his hat from the dirt and walked into the black recesses of the barn.

* * *

Heath's disappearance broke the spell binding the other men. Duke McCall was the first to speak. "You men, get back to work." He looked at Nick. "Don't imagine you want him walking through the house that way. Best go get him another shirt, boy." 

Nick nodded silently to his Foreman and started towards the house. Out of view of the crew working the around the barn, he doubled over and lost the contents of his stomach.

Knowing that Heath would still be there, Duke entered the barn carrying the shirt Nick had brought. The young man had only been at the ranch eight weeks, but it was clear his deep love of horses was a source of both joy and comfort to him. He'd spent a lot of time in here after one or another confrontation with Nick Barkley.

It only took a few seconds to locate him grooming and soothing a mare awaiting her first foal. "There you go girl. It won't be long now, will it? You'll be a Mama soon." The horse nuzzled him, enjoying the gentle hands and soft voice of the man whom she had grown fond of over the last few days.

The older man cleared his throat to announce his presence. Heath stepped out of the foaling stall and took the shirt that was offered. "Thought you might want this."

"Thank you." He hadn't had time to consider how he was going to get past Victoria Barkley without displaying his back for her or the rest of the household to see. He wondered, briefly, how the shirt had come to be in Duke's hand.

Reading his face, McCall's eyes crinkled in amusement. "I made Nick go get it. He may be the Boss, but he's still Tom Barkley's son and I've seen him in diapers. Tanned his hide mor'n a few times when his Daddy wasn't there to do it, too. Don't reckon things have changed all that much since then."

A small grin crossed Heath's face at the thought of the older man acting as surrogate Father to a young and hot-headed Nick. But there it was, those word's summed it up. 'Tom Barkley's son.' That was the crux of the matter. Both were Tom Barkley's sons, but one represented the fall of an idol. Heath wasn't responsible for the circumstances of his birth, but that wasn't stopping Nick from taking them out on him instead of the one person who should have been present to answer for his own actions. Tom Barkley was dead and someone had to pay for Nick's disillusionment. That someone turned out to be Heath.

"It's none of my business, son, but if you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen. You just come find me." Duke turned and left Heath to change in privacy.

* * *

Riding the fence line gave Nick the solitude he needed. The fight this morning had only served to make bad situation worse. He'd lost his temper for no other reason than the desire to take another shot at Heath. He knew he'd acted like a child, knew he was making a fool of himself even as he did it. Sure, some of the crew probably admired him for standing his ground; a few had made it clear they resented Heath's acceptance and rise in circumstances. More to the point, Nick had done nothing to encourage them to get over their resentment. In fact, he'd discouraged any closeness between Heath and the men. In the end he'd humiliated himself in front of Duke McCall, a man whose respect he valued as much as that of his family, and discovered that this supposed half-brother of his had a far more disturbing past than any of them had considered. 

His stomach churned as he remembered the sight of Heath's back. He had no doubt that the man had indeed been to Hell. There weren't too many places where a man could get whipped like that. It was clear Heath had spent time in prison, and that he'd done something, caused some trouble, to deserve harsh punishment. Nick wasn't at all sure he wanted an ex-convict near his family, particularly one who had such a gruesome history.

And yet, he had to admit that Heath wasn't like any of the other men who he'd seen walk out of prison. There wasn't any of the latent anger boiling under the surface, none of the resentment of the Law or grasping determination to get everything they'd missed. For all his claiming to be a Barkley, Heath hadn't actually asked for anything. The boy had been with them two months, worked hard, and he hadn't even bought himself new clothes. It hadn't been hard for Nick to pick another shirt from Heath's closet for him to wear. There'd only been one other hanging there.

He'd gone further, invading the man's privacy, and discovered that Heath Barkley, after two months of living at the ranch, owned two pairs of pants, the boots he wore, his hat, horse, and a few meager personal possessions, including a picture of a lovely young woman. Nick presumed it was Leah Thompson.

He turned his horse and headed for Stockton.

"Brother Nick, what brings you here in the middle of a working day?" Jarrod's pleasure at seeing his brother mixed with curiosity at his unexpected appearance at the law offices.

Nick paced the room, unsure of how or where to start. Finally he asked the question that had been foremost in his mind. "Jarrod, did you ever have the Pinkerton's investigate Heath?"

The Lawyer sobered, anticipating another in their endless arguments over Heath's presence at the Barkley mansion. "Why, Nick?"

"Did you?" The question demanded an answer.

"Yes."

"What did you find out?" To Jarrod's surprise, the tall dark-haired cowboy's face reflected panic and uncertainty rather than the overt hostility he'd become accustomed to seeing there.

"Sit down Nick, and tell me what this is about, then I'll answer your questions." He gestured to one of the handsome leather armchairs that occupied the space opposite his desk. While Nick settled himself, his older brother rose and poured the two men each a scotch. Finally, when they were settled and he'd instructed his secretary to insure there were no interruptions, Nick began his tale of the morning's events.

When the last detail had been told, Jarrod understood the reason for his younger brother's sense of urgency.

"Jarrod, I've never seen anything like it. I don't know how a man survives the kind of beating that must have caused those scars." Even now the whiskey churned in his stomach at the memory. The look on Nick's face made Jarrod dread the day he was ever confronted with the sight.

"Nick, I'm not going to minimize your concerns. I think we'd be wise to keep an eye on Heath. But think about this. He's been with us for two months. There has been ample time and opportunity for him to show his true colors if he's hiding anything. I'm not sure any man would be able to keep that kind of a fascade day-in and day-out for that long. I honestly don't think there's anything to worry about."

Nick nodded, focusing on the logic of his brother's words, trying to damp down the panic that had settled in his heart when he'd realized what the cowboy's back implied. Heath had never given a hint of being violent. In fact, he's spent a lot of time walking away from the confrontations that Nick and the hands seemed intent on provoking. The only time Nick had seen him give in to anger was when Nick had implied that Leah Thompson had been a prostitute who'd used a night spent with Tom Barkley to tarnish the great man's reputation and try to claim Barkley heritage for her son.

It had happened a week after the man calling himself Heath Thompson had come to stay in the big house. "I can't believe you'd take some whore's story over our Father!" The words had been intended to shock his family into realizing just exactly what they were saying about Tom Barkley. They'd been laid out there right in front of Heath who had been dismissed by Nick as being unworthy of acknowledgement or even the barest courtesy.

The words had barely passed into hearing when Nick Barkley found himself slammed against the solid wood paneling of the Library, hoisted half a foot off the floor and held by a steel grip around each arm. He gasped to regain his breath and his startled eyes looked into crystalline blue ones that reflected pure rage.

The words came out with a deadly calm, barely audible to the others in the room. "Call me what you will, but never…I repeat NEVER…speak of my mother again in that way. If you do, I will kill you."

In that moment, held aloft by a man who he should be able to physically best in any fight, incapable of defending himself, Nick found himself afraid. He had no doubt but that Heath was fully capable of what he threatened. Jarrod had interceded, rescuing the moment and Heath had left the house to spend hours riding across the open range. The moment had receded as weeks passed by, but now circumstances revived the memories causing Nick to wonder.

"Nick." Jarrod's words broke his reverie.

"Nick, I did ask the Pinkerton's to look into Heath's background. I have no idea what they've found. I'm expecting a preliminary report in the next few days. Until then, I'd suggest you take reasonable precautions, but not worry overly much." Jarrod pinned his brother with a stare. "I'm usually a pretty good judge of character, and I don't think that Heath is a danger to anyone, except maybe you, if you don't stop doing everything you can to goad him into something."

* * *

Work on the fences and moving the herds to fresher pastures kept most of the crew away from the main house and barns for the next few days. Nick made sure that he was always knew where Heath was working, but avoided any more contact with him than necessary. Most of the hands did the same. Word of what had happened and what lay beneath the ever present blue shirt had spread almost instantly through the bunkhouse. 

"They're scared of me, ain't they Duke?" McCall was one the few who exhibited an obvious ease with the blond-headed cowboy.

"I reckon so. Least ways the crew. They'll get over it."

"Nick?"

McCall eyed him speculatively. "Scared? Yeah, for his family. But mostly I'm thinking he's not quite sure what to make of you anymore. Don't make no sense, but maybe some good come out of those scars you carry."

"Nothing good has ever come from Hell, Duke."

"Well, at least they've let up on you. That's gotta feel better." The weathered face broke into a small grin.

"I suppose." A small grin lifted the corner of his mouth.

When the crew returned to the ranch that evening, Nick made his way up to his bedroom to clean up. He'd made a point of claiming first rights to a bath and all the hot water since the day Heath had moved into the house. It had been just one more way of getting his point across. Heath followed, in no hurry, assuming that today would be no different. It had shocked him, half an hour later, to find that Nick's door was still closed and the bath was his.

Nick had been sidetracked by the brown portfolio that lay on his bed. He'd opened it, wondering what could be inside, only to be confronted with the report that Jarrod had received from the Pinkerton Agency. It consumed twenty pages and presented the barest outline of Heath's life. Laid out on the pages in front of him was the story of a man who had been born out of wedlock and spent his entire youth paying for it.

Born eight months after Tom Barkley had left Strawberry, Heath was shunned by the town and his only blood relatives besides his mother. He'd worked from the time he was six to help put food on the table. Small for his age, he'd been a charge boy in the mines. Later, when he'd grown big enough to handle horses, he'd taken on a second job at the livery in Strawberry. None of that left time for schooling, even if the town Fathers would have let him associate with their children. So Heath was educated at home, in the few hours of free time that his work allowed. He was, by all accounts intelligent and literate. Leah Thompson had raised the boy to be polite, respectful, and to value honor. She'd taught by example, spending the better part of 20 years doing manual labor, washing other people's laundry and cleaning their houses, rather than take the easy way out and become a saloon girl.

When the mine had played out and the town had begun to fail, Heath Thompson had taken the only path his 14 year old mind could conceive of. He'd lied about his age to join the Union Army to fight. At least he would be able to send money home to his mother. A proficient horseman and sharpshooter, the boy had been assigned to an elite corps of marksmen. In the end, that would prove to be his undoing. Captured while on assignment to assassinate Rebel officers, Heath Thompson had found himself consigned to the Hell that was Carterson Prison, for the last eight months of the war.

The stories of Carterson, and other camps on both sides of the conflict, had emerged along with the few dozen survivors and the thousands of corpses. Brutal punishment, disease and starvation had been the norm. Heath had lingered in a Union hospital for almost a year before he was deemed fit to be released. The final insult had been the letter denying him any recognition of his service as he'd lied about his age to enlist.

The rest of the report lay unread in Nick's hands when Jarrod came upstairs to fetch him for dinner. He wasn't surprised when his younger brother begged off. "I need to be alone right now. Please tell Mother that I'm going to sleep."

Jarrod rested his hand on his brother's shoulder and nodded his sympathy. He's been able to read the report in the privacy of his office, where there was no one to interrupt while he came to terms with the information.

"Mother, Nick has asked to be excused, he's not feeling well."

"Oh my, Heath, did he say anything to you?"

"No M'am, he seemed fine riding back in today."

"I think he's just tired Mother." Jarrod was trying to assure his brother as much privacy as he needed.

Eventually, Nick had fallen asleep, but it wasn't a restful one. His dreams had been filled with visions of the tales he'd read about the prison camps during the Andersonville trials. And in all of them, he'd seen the face of Heath Barkley, starved, in pain, horribly sick, but with those piercing blue eyes staring straight into his conscience all the time. Nick awoke, gagging on his own gorge.

It was late, Heath had stayed up to watch the fire and to contemplate his future. Leaving was beginning to look like a good alternative. Now heading back to his room,the sounds of retching coming from the bathroom stopped him midway down the hall. Knocking, he opened the door and was surprised to see Nick hunched over the commode, consumed with dry heaves. His face was horribly pale and sweat coated his forehead and arms. Without thinking, Heath wetted a towel that hung on the rack and pressed it to the other man's face.

"Take it easy Nick. Just ride 'em out, then we'll get you back to your room." Eventually the spasms subsided and he guided the sick man back down the hall. "You need any help from here?"

"N n noo, I'll be okay."

Heath nodded and turned to leave.

"Heath?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

The blond nodded and left for his own room.

The next morning found the family gathered for breakfast. Victoria Barkley surveyed her middle son and judged that he was tired but not seemingly ill. "Nick, are you feeling better this morning?"

"Yes Mother. " He smiled and she returned it with a look of concern that warmed his heart.

Jarrod spent breakfast stealing occasional glances at his brother, as if to assess what changes last night's reading might have wrought. Eventually, as the meal was drawing to its close,he rose to leave the table. "Brother Nick, may I speak with you in my office?"

"Sure Jarrod." The two men left as Heath headed out to the barn to begin the day's crew assignments.

"I suppose it's too early to offer you a drink?"

The two merely exchanged glances.

"Did you know, Nick, that when you get scars that young, they have to be cut periodically, so you can grow. Scars tissue doesn't stretch, so you either cut it, it tears, or you become twisted."

Nick had no answer for that.

"What do we do now, Jarrod?"

"With what we know? Keep it to ourselves. I don't think we have the right to tell this to anyone, not even Mother. Heath has been badly used enough as it is." He looked at Nick and received a nod of agreement in return.

"What do we do about him?"

"Do you still have doubts?"

"That he's dangerous? No. That he's a Barkley? I suppose."

"Does it make any difference to you that after the report and seeing all the little bits of Father in him, I'm even more convinced?"

"I don't know what to think Jarrod. If I admit he's my brother, then what does that say about Tom Barkley?"

"That he was imperfect. That he was human and just as frail as the rest of us. That whatever else he passed to us from being here to raise us, we're all made of the same stuff that could let a 14-year-old boy live through Hell on Earth and come out the other end with his humanity intact. That's no small legacy."

Nick seemed to stare at the titles ranged in the shelves that lined the room, as he digested what his brother had said.

"I suppose you're right." Nick's eyes contained a sadness the likes of which Jarrod hadn't seen there since the days right after Tom Barkley had been murdered. "These days I wonder how much of that I've really inherited."

"Nick, we all do things we regret. It doesn't make us less worthy. If you're feeling bad over how you've punished Heath for Father's actions, then I'd say that you inherited as much of that legacy as the rest of us."

Nick looked at his brother, grateful for the vote of confidence. "I guess I'd better get to work."

Jarrod reached out to grab Nick's arm as he walked past. A nod of his head directed the cowboy's attention out the window, to the corral where the Black had been let out for another attempt at breaking him.

Heath was standing at the rail, talking to the animal as it nuzzled his hand. The two men watched as the jet black animal ran the length of the corral and then returned to stand with his human companion once more.

Nick watched for a few seconds more, then nodded his head as if in silent conversation. He turned on his heal and left Jarrod standing there, watching.

Heath was lost in thought, so focused on the horse that he never heard the jingle of Nick's spurs as he approached. The ranch hands standing in the area took a collective breath, waiting for the explosion to come.

Nick placed a hand on Heath's shoulder. "So you gonna show me how to gentle this horse?"

Jarrod stood on the patio, watching, mesmerized by what was happening. Nick leaned against the corral fence, equally rapt.

In the center of the corral, horse and man stood face to face. Each looked the other in the eye. Slowly, tentatively, the cowboy reached out his hand and offered it to the horse, waiting patiently for the offer of friendship to be accepted.


End file.
